Mr Doubler Begins Again

‘Oh? But I hear on the grapevine he’s buying up everything left, right and centre. He’s got most of the county apparently.’

Doubler shrugged. ‘I have very little interest in Peele.’

‘Well, that’s not a bad tactic, I suppose. The longer you hold out, the more valuable this place will be to him. But don’t leave it too long. There comes a point where it’s just not practical you owning a farm in the middle of his land. At the moment, this place is valuable to him. But there will come a tipping point beyond which it is no longer valuable to anyone else.’

‘My farm is not in the middle of his land. His farmland surrounds mine. And what he owns near me has little impact on me, providing he leaves me well alone.’

‘But will he leave you alone? I doubt it. Not once he’s got his eyes on the prize. This could be the jewel in his crown.’ Julian’s own eyes were sparkling in anticipation.

‘Potatoes?’ Doubler asked the children scattered round the table. He gave the gravy a good stir before sitting down to contemplate the perfectly rare beef in front of him.

‘As I say. I’ve got no interest in Peele.’

Julian peered at his father over the top of his specs. ‘Well, Dad, if you ever need a hand entering into negotiation, I’d be more than happy to help. It can’t be easy looking after this place on your own, and it’s not the same, is it, since Mum . . .’ he hesitated to finish the sentence, ‘went.’

Camilla allowed a small sound of exasperation to escape before addressing her brother with a sad whine. ‘Julian, I don’t know why you always have to raise the contentious issues just when we’re having such precious time together. Let’s talk about positive things, shall we?’

Julian answered in a quiet voice, in much the same way that a seasoned alfresco diner knows to keep still when a wasp is bothering them, ‘I don’t think a speculative offer from an extremely wealthy neighbouring farmer is exactly negative, do you? This place is bleak – look at it. There’s ice on the inside of the windows, for God’s sake.’

While it was true there were still traces of ice on the windows from last night’s heavy frost, the house was snug. The fire was roaring and throwing out a huge amount of heat, adding the distinctive quality of light that can only be achieved from the flicker of flame.

‘It’s cosy,’ said Camilla, looking for her father’s approval. ‘And anyway, it was our home – it was where we grew up. I don’t see how you can be so unsentimental about it, Julian. I don’t know about you, but I want my children to know this, to feel that they are part of it. We’ve got so many memories here.’

Julian looked unimpressed by this argument as he mentally flicked through a catalogue of recollections. Adulthood can have a strange effect on a childhood retrospective. He and Camilla had shared exactly the same experiences and yet they had very different associations. To Julian, it was black and white. His mother had been here and then she wasn’t. Any glimpses of past joys had been obliterated with her.

‘The land is valuable, Camilla. You’re being naive. And who knows what will happen to it in the future? The train line could completely ruin the value of these properties. I think if there is a viable offer on the table, Dad would be very sensible to have a serious look at it.’

Doubler drew himself taller and said, in a clear and decisive tone, ‘I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me as if I weren’t here. I am not selling the house, I am not selling the farm, and I will be here until the day I die. Please do not talk about matters that are none of your business, particularly if your conversation threatens to spoil the beef.’ But this was said only in his head. In reality, he quietly began to eat.

‘Spectacular food, Dad. Well done. Your Sunday lunch is just super,’ said Camilla, with a sad smile.

‘I like the potatoes best,’ contributed a small voice to his right.

Doubler examined the child, Camilla’s youngest, with heightened interest.

‘You do, do you? And why is that?’

‘Because they’re crunchy,’ he said seriously. ‘And they’re fluffy.’ He scrutinized the potato on the end of his fork. ‘They’re crunchy and they’re fluffy.’

‘You, young man, show some promise. That is exactly why they’re good.’ Doubler smiled, looking and feeling very much like a grandfather.

The small child, emboldened by his grandfather’s warmth, continued, ‘Mum’s are oily. And a bit squishy. Sometimes they’re hard, too.’

‘Darling, that’s not very kind,’ said Camilla. ‘Darren, tell Benj that’s not very kind.’

‘That’s not very kind, Benj. Your mother’s potatoes aren’t as nice because we don’t have an Aga. Your grandfather has an Aga, which is why the potatoes are nicer,’ said Darren, without lifting his eyes from his plate.

Doubler was surprised by this information. Surprised that his son-in-law would have so much to say on the subject. It was a shame he was wrong.

‘The Aga didn’t cook the potatoes. I cooked the potatoes. A strong heat source is all it takes, and actually you can cook very good roast potatoes in most ovens, even those with an uneven temperature, providing you take a bit of extra care. It’s in the preparation. You need to parboil them for long enough to ensure they’re not hard in the middle. It’s important that the outer layer of the potato just begins to break down so that it will absorb some of the fat you’re cooking them in. Give them a really good shake in the pan when you’ve drained them, which will ensure you get a good mix of crispy bits. The fat’s important, too. I use goose.’

‘Gross,’ said a voice from Doubler’s left, the elder of Julian’s children.

The younger of Julian’s children stifled a giggle.

Doubler continued, ‘The roasting is easy providing you put your parboiled potatoes into very hot fat. You can’t go wrong. They need good seasoning, too. The seasoning is always important.’

‘I don’t know why you’ve never taught me to cook roast potatoes, Dad, if mine are apparently so substandard.’ The hurt evident in her voice, Camilla directed the comment towards her husband.

‘Because you only ever turn up here at lunchtime. If you want to see how I prepare the roast, you really need to be here around 9 a.m.’

‘Fair enough, but what about when I was a teenager? That might have been more useful. It might have prevented me from a lifetime of cooking inferior potatoes for my family.’ Again Camilla addressed the comment in the direction of her husband.

‘Your mother cooked,’ said Doubler definitively.

Camilla looked down at her plate and carried on eating.

Julian, uninterested in potatoes or their preparation, continued heedlessly, ‘Arable land is worth a premium at the moment. Fifteen thou an acre on a good day, but with this strategic stronghold, it would be worth much more than that. And the house has a great footprint – you’d get a sizable premium from a developer. It might well be worth applying for outline planning now. If nothing else, that would get Peele to up his game.’

Doubler looked beyond his son to the view out of the window. He could see for miles at this time of the year, despite the frosted glass. In the summer, the view was curtailed by the wisteria that wrapped itself round the house, the vigorous new growth fighting with the honeysuckle and roses that entwined it. The foliage shaded the room, cutting down on the sunlight that crept in, and this, coupled with the thick flagstones, ensured the room remained beautifully cool. Doubler loved this view. He loved this room, hot and smoky in the winter, cold and shady in the summer. He was not a materialistic man; he was a man of the soil, but nevertheless he wondered whether he could love a house more.

Camilla was having a good look around her, too. ‘Your daily is obviously doing a good job still: the place is immaculate.’

A small flicker of warmth enveloped Doubler’s heart. Mrs Millwood! he thought to himself, but as quickly the thought of her dispelled. She had no place here; theirs was strictly a table for two.

‘Mmmm,’ he said non-committally.

‘Is she still up here full time?’ ventured Julian, doing a quick calculation in his head. ‘Seems like a bit of an indulgence, Dad. If you had a smaller place, you wouldn’t need all that help. Less to worry about at your time of life.’

‘Seconds?’ Doubler addressed the table.

‘Really, Dad, you should get your head out of the sand. Opportunities can go just as quickly as they come. Think about how you will cope in five years’ time, ten years’ time. It’s not going to get any easier.’

Doubler didn’t feel old. He felt his years, but with these years came a host of benefits. He knew his body well, and he and it had come to a steady understanding. He fed it the fuel it required – not too much, not too little – and he maintained it to a good working standard. And in turn, it didn’t let him down. Doubler felt that the mutual respect shared by mind and body might well mean that together they would go on for ever. But when Doubler’s son was around, he felt different. Not older but much less sure. Julian made him feel fallible, and his impatience with his father if he were slow to stand to his feet or if he paused for a moment’s reflection before speaking gave way to such obvious contempt and open hostility that Doubler became quite capable of doubting both his body and his mind.

‘I’m not old,’ he said, ‘but goodness me, you make me feel tired.’ This, he said to himself.

Plates found their way back to Doubler, and as he layered thin slices of beef on each and sent the plates on their course for seconds of vegetables, he contemplated his son, who, somewhere in the background, was continuing to whine on about how old and incompetent his father would soon be.

That’s me he’s talking about, thought Doubler, somewhat abstractly. That’s his old man’s life he’s wishing away. Now all he talks about is when I get old, when I die, what I’m worth. What he really wants to know is when he can bank some of my wealth in his account. I know what’s on his mind. He’s worried I might well fritter it away or do something stupid. Or give it to the animal shelter.

Doubler’s thoughts drifted easily from the animal shelter to Mrs Millwood. Mrs Millwood volunteered at an animal shelter. Doubler didn’t know much about the comings and goings of such a place, other than the tales he heard over lunch. And at their lunches, Mrs Millwood tended only to wield accounts of heartwarming kindness, designed to elevate his mood. But Doubler understood quite a bit about abandonment.

‘There might be a need for some cash – you’re right, Julian,’ Doubler said, pulling himself out of his reverie, and experiencing a little thrill of anticipation at the knowledge that he was about to provoke his pompous son.

Julian looked up from his plate, surprised that his words had finally reached their target.

‘Now you’re talking, Dad. Go on . . .’

‘The local animal shelter is doing a fundraising drive and I’m thinking of getting involved. You know, lending a hand.’

‘The local what?’ Julian spat the question out, looking very much like a man who had swallowed an indigestible morsel.

‘You know, the animal shelter. It’s where they provide refuge to animals in need. They get all kinds up there, you know. You’d be amazed at people’s cruelty when they no longer get any pleasure from an animal they used to be fond of. Particularly the old ones. The donkeys and ponies and the like. They’re hard to house. And loads of older cats and dogs that have just been abandoned. It’s really astonishing that human beings can be so selfish.’

‘Dad. That is not what you need cash for. Do not do anything stupid. Camilla, Darren, back me up here. You don’t want to see your inheritance buying straw for donkeys, do you?’

‘Oh, Julian, they need a lot more than straw,’ interrupted Doubler earnestly. ‘They need grass all year round. Once I finish with the potatoes, this land would make great grazing for some donkeys in need. I’ve already suggested it to the folk up at the shelter.’

‘You’ve done what?’ Two spots of pink rose on Julian’s cheeks and his eyes bulged, unblinking.

‘I’ve just talked it through. The pros and cons. You know, what I would need to do to make a concrete contribution to the good work they are doing down there.’

‘Jesus, Dad. By all means make a contribution. Put some money in the collection pot when you are doing your grocery shopping. Take the sticker. Goddamn it, wear the sticker! But that’s it. That’s all they’re getting from you.’

Camilla put her knife and fork down on her plate with a clatter. ‘Julian, once again you really are taking a very hard line here. If Dad has a new interest, then I think that’s just great. Go and volunteer, Dad. Go for it! Don’t just put your loose change in the collection pot – rattle the collection pot! Go and join the troops in the High Street. Those volunteers can be extremely persuasive, too, and it’s very rarely threatening, you know. I mean, sometimes it is just a little, well, daunting, if you’re hurrying and you need your change for the parking machine and it’s just there in your hand and you can feel their eyes burning into you as you rush past. You have to say something, don’t you? You can’t help but feel obliged. I often find myself apologizing to them as I pass.’ Camilla’s eyes darted round the table, searching for consensus among her fellow diners.

Darren made a rare interjection, interrupting his wife as she spoke. ‘Volunteer. But I’m going with Julian’s gut on this one. Don’t sign anything.’

‘Well, of course Dad’s not going to sign anything, are you, Dad? I mean, not without talking to us first?’ Camilla looked at her father for reassurance.

Julian, impatient with his sister’s feeble enrolment to his cause, cut her off sharply. ‘How long has this, er, relationship been going, Dad? How deeply have they got their claws in?’

He looked up at the three pairs of eyes watching him.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I shan’t do anything daft. I’m not at that stage yet.’

‘Well, tell us when you are about to do something daft, Dad.’

‘I did something daft when I allowed my genes to reproduce themselves,’ Doubler said, to himself. And he continued to eat his food in silence.

Chapter 5

Overnight, the thick cloak of disquiet Doubler felt after Sunday lunch with his family wrapped itself firmly round the seed of anxiety already generated by the three Manila envelopes lurking in the drawer. The envelopes hadn’t been clamouring for his attention, but Doubler was painfully familiar with the impact of leaving one mouldy potato among a sack of sound potatoes and he feared the contents of the envelopes may well be festering and could perhaps become more volatile through lack of attention.

The weekends were always long, but he now only had a number of hours before Mrs Millwood returned to Mirth Farm. Doubler steeled himself, determined to pluck up the courage to ask for Mrs Millwood’s assistance. There was nobody else in the world better equipped to help Doubler find the right solution and he knew that his first instinct, to ignore the threat altogether, was undoubtedly the most dangerous.

Despite his resolve, Doubler chose not to open the third envelope immediately. There would be time to read it, but there was an order to his day that needed to be adhered to. Leaving the envelopes in the dark drawer, their potency in abeyance for a little longer, Doubler prepared his tea.

Doubler warmed the pot while measuring out a big scoop of his specially blended tea leaves. He drained the pot, added the leaves and then poured in boiling water, taking the pot to the still-boiling kettle and filling it at the Aga to ensure minimal loss of heat. Doubler believed the leaves should be allowed to mix freely with the boiling water to fully release the flavour so he didn’t use any strainer inside the pot, choosing instead to strain the tea as he poured it. Part of his Sunday evening ritual was to mix enough of his blend to keep him going for a full week, preferring to leave the bulk packs of black tea in a cool, dark corner of the pantry and enjoying an inordinate sense of accomplishment when he had judged the week’s requirement perfectly. His blend (equal quantities of Keemun, Assam and Ceylon leaves) provided him the versatility he needed from a tea: something light in colour with a smooth and mild taste whose well-rounded character suited both a morning and an afternoon cup.

His teapot, cup, saucer and milk jug set out before him, Doubler sat at the kitchen table and spread out all three envelopes, examining the contents in the order they had arrived. The substance remained consistent. Mr Peele wanted to buy his farm.

The first letter had arrived, conventionally, by post, and once he’d digested it, Doubler had paid it scant attention, tidying it away in the dresser drawer without too much further thought.

The second letter, however, was markedly different in both tone and manner of delivery. It had been hand-delivered, which meant that somebody had been to Mirth Farm in person.

It was this intrusion that had rung the alarm bells in Doubler’s head and he swiftly responded with a proportionate stepping-up of his security. Doubler was fortunate that, while ostensibly a man with no friends, he had many people indebted to him and it was very easy to call in a favour, particularly as he leveraged this influence so rarely. Those beholden to him were eager to be of use and within two days of a brusque phone call, two men in a white van had arrived to install the security camera on the corner of Doubler’s yard. This was the camera whose vigilant sweep now kept a watchful lookout for Mirth Farm trespassers.

Doubler worked meticulously through each letter, making careful notes in his journal of the most salient points, though these were sometimes difficult to extract from the ornate vernacular that intensified with Peele’s mounting irritation. What struck Doubler was the very great haste with which Peele had crescendoed from a generous cash offer to an outright demand, but nothing had prepared him for the unveiled threats of the latest letter. Peele was clearly very used to getting his own way and, perhaps an impatient man, had been quickly affronted by Doubler’s lack of response.

Should Doubler have responded to the first or second letter, even just to say a polite no? This was a question for Mrs Millwood. Mrs Millwood might not have a clue about property negotiation, but she had a very good instinct for people and she would certainly have an opinion.

The cash offer in the first letter was very good; Doubler had recognized this immediately. Even given the tiny sum for which he had originally purchased Mirth Farm and allowing for his lack of attention to rising property prices, he knew it was unarguably generous. In fact, it was hard to imagine that anyone should want to part with such a very large sum of money in exchange for his home. It was evident, Doubler deduced, that Peele was not trying to steal Doubler’s farm or trick him in any way. But the size of the offer demonstrated to Doubler how very badly Peele wanted to own Doubler’s property and he had made his determination abundantly clear by coming to Doubler with a proposal that was intended to be irresistible. And when Doubler had not even acknowledged receipt of the offer, Peele had accelerated the urgency by pointing out the reasons that Doubler might regret his lack of pliability.

The second letter swiftly introduced some legalese. The letter began with the words ‘Without Prejudice’, which in themselves were intended to be perceived as a threat. Doubler had already confirmed the definition with Mrs Millwood and so he knew that these words meant the letter could not be used in a court of law against the originator, but Doubler was not entirely sure why he and Peele might end up locked in a legal battle. Could Doubler be sued for not responding to the first letter? Was it an offence not to enter into a negotiation that you wanted no part of? Doubler didn’t believe, logically, that this could be the case, but the very words ‘Without Prejudice’ were troublesome to him.

In his second letter, Peele used the language of courtrooms to forcibly suggest that Doubler must accept his generous offer within fourteen days or the offer would be withdrawn and Peele would thereafter be forced to pay fair market value. Doubler knew, logically, that this threat was nonsensical because he didn’t want to sell his home at any price.

Doubler referred back to the earlier letter and glanced ahead to the third. They had not only accelerated in urgency, they’d accelerated in impenetrable speech. The first letter contained no ‘notwithstanding’s, the second contained two, and the third was riddled with them.

The gist of the third letter was one of unbridled intimidation, and Peele was very specific about the nature his threats would take. Peele insisted that he fully intended to increase his use of pesticides and warned that his liberal use of genetically modified crops might negatively impact on Doubler’s own organic status and, therefore, his bottom line. This was a cause for grave concern to Doubler and he underlined the observation in his notebook. Doubler wasn’t worried so much about his organic certification from an economic point of view: while his farming methods were indeed organic (he had begun his farming life not knowing any other way and he had failed to pay attention to progress so had failed to adopt more productive methods subsequently), his farming income did not depend on his organic certification.

But Peele was not to know that this threat was alarming for other reasons. Peele’s land completely surrounded Doubler’s and there was nothing to stop the insects that landed on Peele’s fields stopping to inspect Doubler’s. There was a very real concern that the purity of Doubler’s potato experimentation could be compromised and that the data he had thus far gathered could be greatly undermined. What if the Institute of Potato Research and Development in northern India, the very body of excellence with whom Doubler was now in correspondence, got wind of this potential breach? Doubler was certain that he had allowed adequate set-aside at the margins of each field to pass the scrutiny of the organic inspectors, but would the country of India be so easily satisfied? Doubler’s research, thus far, had relied on the absolute genetic integrity of each generation of potatoes, and now Peele was threatening forty years of work.

This was very vexing indeed.

And as if Doubler didn’t have enough doubt and worry plaguing him, Peele went on to list yet another threat (as though he had an endless supply on which to rely upon in a purely non-prejudicial way). He had, apparently, ‘excellent connections and relationships with influencers, government officials and local councillors’ and these people might well force Doubler to sell his land under compulsory purchase order owing to proposed plans for the new high-speed rail link that was threatening to carve the chalky hills in two. Peele made it very clear that his own strategic alliances would put him in a strong position to deal with whatever was thrown his way but that Doubler, acting on his own, would find battling with the monsters of Westminster a very lonely and futile job.

Doubler sighed loudly and wondered whether Peele’s apparent commercial success was because he dealt his blows in threes. The generous cash offer could be ignored in isolation. After all, what on earth would Doubler do with so much money other than find the ideal place to live and work, and this he already had at Mirth Farm? But dealing with an unsolicited offer from government officials was as vexing as the genetically-modified-pollen-carrying insects that Doubler now saw as little plagues of rogue militants dispatched in clouds by Peele’s own men to undermine Doubler’s life’s work.

There was no denying it: Peele’s threats had dealt greater blows than the perpetrator could have dared hope. The threat to Doubler’s organic status paled into insignificance in comparison to the threat to his groundbreaking potato research. And the suggestion that officials might be invited to discuss the path of a new train and then accidentally stumble across the potato grower’s business concerns was much more alarming to Doubler, who alone knew the true depths of his underground activity. Were the government to get wind of this other enterprise while routinely investigating resistance to a compulsory purchase order, then who knew what trouble lay ahead.